


Noumenia

by zopyrus



Category: The Last of the Wine - Mary Renault
Genre: Advice, Gen, Historical, M/M, Peacocks, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 22:29:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zopyrus/pseuds/zopyrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myron is not great at giving advice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noumenia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirtybinary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtybinary/gifts).



> Thanks to [redacted] for the beta!

Myron walked along the garden path, feeling out of place among the carefully tended vegetation.  Alkibiades had made this outing seem like a grand idea, a chance to experience the exotic unknown—but the boy always had an uncanny way with words.  One remembered only after the fact that flower gardens weren’t actually that exciting.

“They’ll never come out if you keep moving around.”

Myron turned.  Alkibiades had settled himself in a patch of grass, his blue cloak spreading carelessly over the ground.

“ _Really,_ Myron,” he said, lisping the ‘r’s and rolling his eyes.  How could rudeness be so charming?  Alkibiades patted the ground beside him, and Myron sat.

“I am still surprised that Pyrilampes doesn’t mind strangers wandering all over his property,” he said.

“Only once a month,” said Alkibiades.  “I suppose he thinks it is his duty, as a prosperous citizen, to give back what he can—like sponsoring a trireme, or a tragic chorus.”

“He does those things as well,” said Myron.  “You are right, of course.  His time in Persia doesn’t seem to have corrupted him in the slightest.”

“Ooh,” said Alkibiades, with a sly smile, “I’m not sure I would go that far.  You should hear the stories people tell about his love life.  Why, someone told me that he and Perikles—”

“Whoever told you tales about Perikles should have remembered who your guardian is.”

Myron wondered who would have dared—but Alkibiades had so many companions, and too few of them were of sound character.

“I wasn’t going to tell you it was true,” Alkibiades protested.  “Just that—”

“I don’t want you to tell me at all,” said Myron firmly.  “What isn’t true isn’t worth repeating.”

Alkibiades had the grace to blush.  It was one of his better qualities.  He might, in his high-spirited way, go too far or say too much: but when such things were pointed out to him by sensible people, he was quick to repent.

“I didn’t mean to shock you.  But technically, Perikles isn’t my guardian, anyway.  Not anymore.”

“Of course you’re of age, now.  But—”

“Exactly.  I am of age, his duty is over, and now he barely speaks to me.”

With some surprise, Myron asked, “Since when?”

“Ever since Demokrates—invited me to his villa.”

For all that Myron disapproved of gossip, he had heard plenty about that particular incident, and not even the kindest of rumors made Alkibiades’ side of the story seem sympathetic.  Myron hadn’t heard about any public rift, but he supposed Perikles was decent enough to keep up appearances.  If any son or ward of his ever deliberately disappeared for so long people thought he was dead, Myron probably wouldn’t choose to speak to him either.

Alkibiades guessed his thoughts, and frowned unhappily.

“I don’t mean to complain.  He had every right— _has_ every right to be angry.  But by the dog, everyone else has forgotten it, or pretends they have, and I am not even with Demokrates anymore, I am with you.  Perikles ought to approve of _you_.”

Alcibiades was still missing the point, but Myron couldn’t think of a tactful way to tell him so.  He looked at the flowers instead—and saw the long, sleek neck of a bird slink out from behind a rosebush.  The rest of the creature followed, with its feathery breast, scaly feet, and trailing blue train.

Myron put a hand on Alkibiades’ wrist, but the boy had already frozen, watching.  The bird froze too, just for a moment, sizing them up with its beady eye; but it had clearly learned long ago that Pyrilampes’ frequent guests were there to gaze, not to hunt.  Satisfied, the creature turned its attention back to the rose bush.

Now that he looked again, Myron saw that there were a  few buds on the verge of blossoming.  The peacock found them, too, raising and lowering its crowned head as it inspected the bush with the proprietary air of a gentleman gardener, carefully judging the work of his servants.  Inspection finished, the peacock sidled up to the biggest rosebud, and ate it.

When the bird swallowed, they could see the lump travelling all the way down its throat.

“Should we stop him?” breathed Myron, as the bird moved on to the next biggest flower.

“Please don’t,” said Alkibiades.

“But Pyrilampes—”

The bird swallowed again.

“Doesn’t care,” said Alkibiades.  “Probably.  Besides, you don’t even _like_ roses.”

Myron snorted.  “I’m not convinced I like peacocks, either.”

“Stop talking,” said Alkibiades.

The peacock ate all of the buds it could reach and sauntered away, feathers trailing.

Quietly, Alkibiades said, “The only time Pyrilampes ever gave up one of these birds was as a favor to Perikles.  That’s not gossip—I’ve seen it myself.  Perikles asked him to give one of the hens to Aspasia.”

Myron thought he should probably point out that it was inappropriate for Alkibiades to tell tales about his guardian’s wife, even if they were true—but Aspasia was the kind of woman everyone talked about, so he let it slide.

“Why a hen?”

“I suppose Pyrilampes simply wouldn’t give up any of the real ones.  I thought it was a poor present, but Aspasia’s fond of it.  She claims she likes the hens better than their husbands, because they are more subtle.”

“That’s the sort of thing women say.”

The bird, still near them but unseen, let out a mournful cry.

“She also says I ought to apologize.  And that the excuses I already gave weren’t good enough.  I don’t know how to explain to her that I’m only good at apologies when I don’t mean them.”

“I don’t see why you should have to explain anything to her.  Isn’t this between you and Perikles?”

“Right, but Perikles asks her advice about everything.  And she understands me better than he does.  She actually listens when I tell her things.”

Myron sighed.  He respected Perikles a great deal, but when it came to his wife, the man was a fool.

“She gives you advice you can’t follow, Alkibiades.  When you ran away, you frightened Perikles—and when people realized where you had been, you shamed him.  So now you must just do your best to mend your reputation.  Don’t waste time talking about it, or looking back.”

“But don’t you think—”

“Men don’t talk about their mistakes, Alkibiades, they rectify them.”

“Right.” 

The peacock was still keening. 

Alkibiades turned his face away to look after it.  When he looked back at Myron, he was smiling.

“Have it your way,” he said, and stood up.  He held a hand out to Myron, pulling him up, and they walked out of the garden.

**Author's Note:**

> Pyrilampes son of Antiphon did keep peacocks, and allowed the public to visit them on the first day of every month. (He was also Plato's step father!)
> 
> And there really were nasty rumors about Pericles and Pyrilampes' peacocks, but they were probably not true. :)


End file.
